by Nancy Moser
There is an essence of peeved in her voice or surprise at the invitation. “That sounds lovely,” I say. “And very kind of her.”
Elizabeth shrugs, then turns to leave. “She asks that Cassandra go first. Richard will take her tomorrow morning, when she is ready.”
“She will be very happy to go, as will I when my turn arises.” I realize this has a second meaning that is not kind. Truly, I don’t mean it to be so. But before I can think of a way to offset the implication, Elizabeth continues.
“Fanny and Anne are off to read romance stories in the garden. They are bringing with them a gypsy basket of bread and cheese and wonder if you would join them.”
I stand and set my book aside. “That sounds delightful.”
Upon her exit, I again feel the essence of Elizabeth’s feelings for me—or against me. I don’t know why I don’t get along well with two of my sisters-in-law, Mary and Elizabeth, yet am quick to make excuses for them: they are set in their ways and don’t appreciate my independent nature. And I’m set in my independence and find their choices to accept the inevitable limitations of society—the pressure to marry for money and produce a constant stream of children—an act of surrender. Not that I’m always strong within myself. But I strive to be. Do they?
Elizabeth is also determined to make sure I know my standing as compared to hers. For instance, a Mr. Hall walked off this morning with no inconsiderable booty. He charges Elizabeth five shillings for every time he dresses her hair and five shillings for every lesson to her lady’s maid, Mrs. Sace. In my eyes it’s far too much, for he allows no credit for the pleasures of his visit here, for meat, drink, and lodging, the benefit of country air, and the charms of the housekeeper, Mrs. Salkeld. And Mrs. Sace’s society. Yet toward me he was considerate, charging only two and six for cutting my hair. He either respects my youth or my poverty. Yet how did he know what I could afford? I’m certain Elizabeth informed him of my lower, lowly status.
How kind of her. If only I could return a like favour.
*****
It’s my turn to accept Mrs. Bridges’s hospitality. Acquaintances warned that I would find Goodnestone dull. I wish when I had heard them say as much, they could have heard the son’s—Mr. Edward Bridges’s—solicitude and could have known all the amusements that were planned to prevent any hint of dullness.
On the first night of my visit, Edward Bridge, who was not expected to be at home, dined with us. He had been, strange to tell, too late for that day’s cricket match, too late at least to play himself, and, not being asked to dine with the players, had come home. It’s impossible to do justice to the hospitality of his attentions toward me; he made a point of ordering toasted cheese for supper entirely on my account.
The Bridges sisters—Harriot, Sophie, and Marianne—are quite delightful. Actually, the first two own that trait, while Marianne lies sick. During my visit, there is some drama about a ball in Deal and how the girls will get there and who was asked first and by whom, and on and on . . . . I feel in the way—for I have not been invited. They are all very kind and assure me I’m most welcome, but I’ve sent word for my brother to fetch me early next week. My clothes will run out by then, so it’s as good a time as any to make my exit.
Edward Bridges comes and goes. He dined at home yesterday; the day before he was at St. Albans; today he goes to Broome, and tomorrow to Mr. Hallett’s. He is a delightful young man who continues to be very kind—and handsome.
I see him now, coming down the front stairs, ready for Broome. He, in turn, sees me and smiles.
“Miss Jane, how nice—but surprising—to see you up so early this morning. It’s not e’en breakfast yet.”
“I arose on account of the sun streaming in the windows of my fine room. It was not my choice to rise between six and seven. Yet I used the time well. I’ve written to my sister.”
He raises a finger and goes to a drawer in one of the entry tables. “Knowing you are such an avid writer, I bought you a gift.” He pulls out some fine writing paper tied with a blue ribbon.
“You are too kind, Edward. My visit here has been filled with your kind attentiveness. You make a girl want to seek you out just to see what other kindness you have in store.”
Suddenly, Edward takes hold of my free hand. “I enjoy providing for your every need, Miss Jane. And I believe I would enjoy doing so on a permanent basis.”
I can only blink at him.
“Would you consider marrying me?”
I pull my hand away and laugh, then cover the offending sound with a hand. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean—”
He nods. “I know my proposal is surprising. I didn’t expect it myself when I came downstairs this morning. But to see you here . . .”
“My vision of loveliness caused all rational thought to be abandoned?”
He reddens. “Perhaps it was a bit hasty.”
“Perhaps.” I touch his hand, but only for a moment. “But it’s very flattering nonetheless.”
He finds his own laugh. “What would Mother have said if we had gone to awaken her with the news?”
“She would have just as soon gone back to sleep, assuming it was merely a dream.”
He takes my hand once more, his face sincere. “She would not object, you know.”
“So she is hoping you will marry a penniless girl?”
“Your character is priceless.”
I offer him a curtsy. “Now, Edward. Off with you to Broome. I will see you when you return and perhaps we will play some Sackree. Although I cannot afford to lose more than ten shillings on the game, I would just as soon lose to you as anyone else.”
He bows, takes his hat and riding crop, and is gone.
I stand in the foyer alone, quite glad there is no one else awake to witness this latest happenstance. I should have said yes to Edward, quite before he could find his reason, and become a legal part of this fine family.
But once again marriage and I have narrowly slid past each other, like two dancers, barely touching in the pass, ending on opposite sides of the line.
Why does it seem inevitable?
*****
I stand before the armoire in my room, about to chuse a dress for the day. My green flowered perhaps? But with hand poised to pull it from its peg, I remember the news of yesterday: Prince William Henry, the Duke of Gloucester, has died. As the brother of King George III, and far from the line of succession, his passing is not cause for elaborate nationwide mourning. Yet respect must be shown. Must we buy black lace, or will ribbon do?
My next thoughts are cold, and yet . . . his death does not move me, though it will cause the hearts of dozens to ache. The Bridges girls are not among that number, however, as they are very well pleased to be spared the trouble of preparation this ball has caused. For with a national mourning there can be no large balls, at least not for a time, so their previous perplexity as to the logistics is now moot. And I too can relax, knowing that I’m not in the way of their plans.
I heard that the Duke’s third child has taken over his title. Two older sisters, passed over. The only boy gets the lot of it. And the girls get nothing.
But by marriage.
Such it is, and there is not a thing any of us can do to change it. Royalty or peasant or somewhere in between.
And yet . . . knowing that doing well for myself is invariably attached to finding a husband . . .
I think of Edward Bridges. I think of Harris. Two proposals refused. That some women long for one proposal, while I’ve declined two—to fine men with much to commend them. Declined for different reasons. It’s as though two different Janes experienced the same event. But is that not appropriate? I’m not the same now with Edward as I was then, with Harris. The past years are enough to change every pore of my skin and every inkling of my mind. Which makes me wonder: What Jane will I b
e years from now?
And will I be married or still a spinster?
Yet here exists the larger question: Do I have a right to continue to refuse offers of marriage that would pull me (and my mother and sister) from the poverty of our current situation and place us within a condition of financial ease? Society would be appeased if I allowed myself this decision, for it has made the rules which hang above every opportunity. It imposes the penalty for not adhering to its wishes.
Guilt. How odd to suffer more guilt for this man-made wrongdoing against society than any guilt I suffer for wrongdoing against the Almighty. Guilt for wrongs against the Lord stem from an inner knowing of right and wrong added to the biblical guidance of a lifetime. The rules of our faith are wise and when followed allow all to benefit. When I break these rules, I feel guilt because I know I’ve done wrong. I acknowledge it and am forgiven. Then I try to do better.
But guilt for wrongdoing against society does not stem from any inner knowing. These rules that are forced upon us make little sense. So why should we feel guilty for ignoring them?
Perhaps it’s not guilt at all, but something darker. Perhaps what we feel is fear. God offers grace and forgiveness for a contrite heart. But society offers cruel consequences and never forgives.
Or forgets. Once crossed, there is no second chance to do better. Society remembers each sin and gleefully catalogues it, holding the new offense against us. If it could pin a sign upon us, to eternally declare our sin to the world, I believe it would. The depth and breadth of this injustice is appalling, unwavering, and unavoidable.
Does society have the right to impose this marital path which may bring unhappiness, e’en as it carries with it freedom from financial worries? Must a woman chuse her own counsel and poverty, or society’s counsel and means? Must stability and peace of mind be attained only by surrender to self?
I hope not, but fear it is so.
Until such time as I find true answers . . . unable to change society I will attempt to change myself.
Right now I seek a dress. I pull the green one from its peg. Black or no black, mourning or no mourning, in these things I will let others tell me what is proper.
As for the rest?
God help me. God help us all.
Humble Hope
Sixteen
I sit in Manydown, happy.
Hmm. I need to adjust my words.
Happily, I sit in Manydown?
I laugh at my private attempts to edit, as well as my concern. For it does not matter how it’s said; it matters only that there be truth within the words.
“You laugh.”
Cassandra gets dressed behind me. I simplify the cause for my laughter by saying, “I’m happy.” I turn from the chair by the window to face her. “We’ve had a delightful visit here at Manydown.”
“We have.”
“I’m so grateful the Biggs have forgiven the humiliation of my engagement to Harris.”
“Long ago, Jane. It has been nearly four years. And Harris is married elsewhere.”
“I do wish him happiness.”
“A commendable wish.”
She comes to me and shows me her back. I button her buttons. With no forethought, I whisper in her ear, “I don’t want to go back.”
Her dress secured, she faces me. “We cannot be gone from Bath forever, Jane. Ibthorpe, Godmersham, Goodnestone; a holiday with Edward in Worthing, then Steventon with James, and now Manydown . . . we have imposed on the hospitality of others long enough.”
I know she is right. It’s March. We have been gone since the previous June. Though nothing is ever directly stated between Mother, Cassandra, and me, none of us has spoken of our return home. Do we withhold all mention of it, for fear of breaking the spell of our jolly visits?
As Cassandra adjusts the sleeve of my dress, I state aloud what might not be pleasant to hear. “I had hoped one of our brothers would offer . . .”
She drops her hand and levels me with a look. “So you want more? Is the hospitality and generosity of our family and friends not enough?”
I’m ashamed. “I appreciate all that has been done. It’s just that . . . I know our time here is drawing to an end.”
“As must all things.”
I realize my happiness has dissipated, abandoning me to this other emotion. How dare happiness leave me so discourteously!
If I could catch it and hold it captive, I would.
Cassandra is at the door of our bedroom. “Are you coming? Are you ready to enjoy this day?”
I will try.
*****
We are home in Bath.
We must move.
Again.
What little we have at Gay Street must be trimmed e’en more to move to Trim Street. What an apt name. Years ago, when we first moved to this city, we had distinctly and determinedly avoided this neighbourhood, assuming Cassandra would express a fearful presentiment about moving here. We successfully avoided it then, but now . . .
Our situation is untenable, our choices few.
I sit in our Gay Street residence, at the table we eat upon, and wrap the few dishes Mother will let us move. “It’s not as though we are going to have any grand dinners, Jane.”
Not as though we could, for we don’t rent a house now, but only a few rooms within someone else’s abode. When James found out, he had the audacity to say, “But what space do three women really need?”
I suppose a closet would suffice, though from what I’ve seen of our lodging at Trim Street, the exaggeration is not great.
To myself I complain aloud, making the walls aware of my displeasure. “The move to Bath was for nothing. We are nothing. We have nothing. These narrow circumstances are—”
Suddenly, Mother appears in the doorway. Her chin is set and her voice quivers as she says, “It has not been for nothing, Jane. Your father and I had three years here in Bath, three years to enjoy each other and have time for ourselves. That was worth everything to me. That was worth even these narrow circumstances.”
I put down the dish I’m wrapping and go to her. “I’m so sorry, Mother. I’m selfish.”
She does not argue with me.
*****
I walk the rooms of Trim Street, wrapping a shawl tighter against the chill of this new residence. The tour does not take long. Four rooms. A parlour with a small table to dine upon in the corner, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. I would venture outside to escape these inner spaces, yet the neighbourhood has little to commend. There is no garden. No open space to allow my thoughts room. I am trapped. The notion to curl into a ball and draw my shawl o’er my head offers itself for my consideration.
It is an option.
Mother comes from the kitchen after making herself a cup of tea. “What are you doing, Jane? You appear lost.”
It’s an apt term, yet a condition that will not benefit further exposure. Mother cannot improve our situation. She’s doing her best. She and Cassandra also suffer. The diminishment of our station is a shared falling from society’s grace. Although Uncle Perrot and Aunt have been kind and most solicitous, they can only do so much. And truth be told, we are not their responsibility. Society has a secret: the fate of widows and spinsters falls behind its screen; there, but unseen. And as we huddle in this frightening place, society’s largest hope is that we will remain hidden so they need not deal with us. We are a pesky fly that spoils the tranquil air of their existence. They would just as soon swat us as open a door and set us free.
Mother sits in her favorite chair, which did accomplish the move from Gay Street. “You don’t answer me, Jane.”
I must say something. “Perhaps I’m a bit lost. I don’t adapt to change easily.”
“So I’ve seen. You must learn to adapt, Jane. Especially now, when change has
become our roommate.” She sips her tea. “I do my best to use our income wisely. Yet even with your brothers’ help, we must be careful with each farthing.”
“I know.” I know.
“Speaking of farthings . . . perhaps you should take up the pen, Jane. You sold one story . . . .”
“It has not been published, and it’s been nearly three years.”
Mother purses her lips and sighs. “At least you received pay for it.”
At least. But the least is not enough. My pride wishes for a book in my hand. For certainly with that book, other publishers would take note of my work. I would have a publishing history. As of now, I have nothing.
Although not privy to my thoughts, Mother disputes them. “You do have a trunk full of manuscripts that you insist on taking with us anywhere we go. They have become an additional traveler.”
“I dare not leave them behind.” I remember the time when they had been left in the coach and nearly ended up in the West Indies. Since that time, my work has never left my presence.
“Why don’t you write now, Jane?” Mother asks. “It might make you feel better.”
I shrug and say, “We shall see,” but I know I cannot write here, cannot write feeling as I do now.
For it’s not possible to enter the lives of my characters and fix their problems and crises when I cannot even fix my own.
*****
Summer has come, and Frank will wed Mary Gibson. Although tentative in our approval because of her youth and family standing, we now accept her. If Frank is happy . . .
He deserves happiness. And pride. Just last October, the naval superiority of the British navy was established at the Battle of Trafalgar. Frank carried Lord Nelson’s second-in-command aboard his ship, the Canopus, but alas, was at Gibraltar getting provisions when the battle occurred. Frank mourns he was not present when our fleet of twenty-seven ships encountered thirty-three Spanish and French ships. Our enemies lost twenty-two vessels. We lost none.
